24

By the time this column gets printed, I will have turned 24 years old. Which means, essentially, that I only have five more years to tell the truth about my age. And then I will be 29, presumably until I am fooling no one, at which point, I will be the lowest age I can pass as. And after I can no longer pass as that age, I hope I am a cool old lady in hot pink stretch pants with blue hair and a gun in my purse. Those are the most admirable of old ladies. Also, the most dangerous.
To celebrate my birthday, I am making my boyfriend take me to Madison for a few days. I don't know what it is, but I need frequent vacations from the northwoods in the winter. Maybe it's laziness on my part or that matter of really disliking the lack of sun. I won't complain about the snow and cold (except in idle conversation to fill awkward silences with people I don't that well). I won't wine excessively though, because, yes, I could move. But moving is a lot of work, and I've already established that I'm lazy. Moreover, I would love to go coastal, but living close to my family is more important than staving off cabin fever and sore snow shoveling muscles.
Travel is completely different. I want to do as much of that as I can. At this point in my life, however, I am not in the financial position to travel to Timbuktu or Guam. So when the opportunity arises to go on even the most tiny of excursions, such as Madison, I do my best to pack as much fun and relaxation into it as I possibly can. Our hotel has a pool. We are going to see a concert. And, essentially, the rest of our time will be spent wandering the State Street shops and eating ethnic food. Swimming, concert-going, shopping and eating are four of my favorite things. I am very happy with my decision to spend my birthday in my state's capitol city. I also plan on spending a good amount of time people-watching the plentiful number of weirdos that always seem to flock to more populated places and college towns.
I couldn't really ask for a better gift than a trip away from winter's monotony. January, February and part of March always seem to drain my energy. Grueling seems to be the right word. January. The car won't start. Ice cream brings no relief from stress. The credit card bill from Christmas comes. It is an all together horrible month. Except for my birthday, that is.
Oh! I'd be remiss if I didn't tell you that I share a birthday with FDR! Isn't that cool? FDR is one of the coolest presidents! And one of the most controversial. And one of the cutest! Obama and W have way too big of ears. Clinton sceeves me out. Bush senior looks like his dentures are always on the cusp of falling out. I don't much like cowboys, so that eliminates Reagan for me. Carter makes me think of liver pills which makes me think about liver and onions. Not pleasant. Ford had a caveman forehead. Nixon... I am generally not attracted to men who I've never seen smile. Nixon was too much of a sourpuss. Johnson reminds me of Gomer Pyle. JFK was okay, but I saw a bunch gory brain pictures on the internet that may or may not have been of him, so that spoils it for me. Plus, not to speak ill of the dead or anything, but that Kennedy family is cursed. Eisenhower is cute, but more in a grandpa way. Not a sexy president kind of way. Same goes for Truman. Martin Van Buren had those crazy-awesome sideburns, but other than that, no one really stands out in my mind as being even half as cute as good ol' Frankie D. Elanor was no uggo either, but if I were her, and born earlier in time of course, I would have a hard time keeping my little gloved hands to myself.
Rereading the previous paragraph, I'd say this is probably one of my most asinine columns to date. Aw well, I am giving myself slack. It's my birthday!